


A Care For One's Gifts

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:44:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac notes that Enjolras is not taking care of his hands, and moves for a solution. For ellevante.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Care For One's Gifts

Enjolras did not take care of himself. This was a given fact, and Courfeyrac had been conscious of it so long as he had known the man. Where Combeferre was meticulous in his dress, Enjolras’ cravat was always skewed to the side and aggressively loosened, for he hated it. He did not like the clothes he wore, and often did not like  _any_  clothes, because they were too restricting, and because they were uncomfortable, and because Enjolras had sensitive skin that was prone to rashes, and coarse fabric often irritated his flesh enough that when he bathed you could see raised scarlet all across his shoulders and his back.

Courfeyrac was used to the fact that Enjolras did not take care of himself. He was used to reminding the chief to eat when the thought fled his mind (as were all the amis, by now). He was used to gently coaxing Enjolras into going home to bed when it was late and shadows were forming under his pretty eyes. He was used to telling holding Enjolras still whilst Combeferre dressed or cleaned a wound on the other man’s face or his head or on his body, often while Enjolras loudly complained and insisted he would bear his wound without Combeferre’s fussing.

Courfeyrac was not used to this particular care. To get their attention that night, Enjolras rapped his knuckles on one of the tables in the Musain, and for the first time, Courfeyrac took care to examine Enjolras’ hands as he vociferated his newest speech. It was perhaps difficult to follow them, given Enjolras’ tendencies towards violent gesticulation even when he was subdued, fatigued or drunk, but he did so all the same.

Enjolras did not take care of his hands.

Courfeyrac frowned as he analyzed them with a clinical expression that could rival his good friend Combeferre’s. Enjolras’ hands were slender, pretty things, capable of playing piano even though they could not be utilized for boxing or for single stick, and recently, Courfeyrac had discovered in practice, they worked well upon guns.

But they were marred. Enjolras’ knuckles were marked red and slightly bruised on both hands, whether it was from knocking wood as he’d just done, or from losing his temper and rapping his fist hard against something (Courfeyrac witnessed such a loss of control once a month or so; despite his temper, Enjolras never laid his hands upon another soul in a fashion that was not tenderness at its finest). 

A few sharp lines scarred Enjolras’ fingers, likely from pens or from darts, possibly from broken glass. His fingers held no callouses yet, but his palms were abused in places, the flesh grazed or bruised, because Enjolras was often a hurried man, and regularly enough he would pick up a plate that was too hot only to wince and replace it.

And his hands were  _red_  too, chapped from the cold because Enjolras wore no gloves despite the cruel bite of January’s wind. Enjolras rapped at the table before him to emphasize a point, drawing him firmly from his thoughts, and Courfeyrac winced.

No, this would have to be remedied.

—-

Enjolras blinked owlishly as Courfeyrac caught his arm the next evening, handing him a small, white box tied neatly with a red ribbon. “Courfeyrac?” The taller man just grinned at him and then moved from the Musain to make his way home.

Enjolras dropped into his seat, undoing the ribbon and peering into the little box, his eyes wide, inquisitive and curious. “Oh.” He said, and he removed the garments from within.

The gloves were of a red leather, supple and thin, and Enjolras looked at the note beneath them.  _Do wear them, Enjolras, I hate to see your hands go cold. I only insist._ He pulled them on, and found them to be comfortable, warm, and fitted enough that he could still comfortably use his hands for other things.

Enjolras smiled.

That week, Courfeyrac found himself tremendously satisfied with the red leather hiding Enjolras’ pale fingers from view as he gestured wildly, tongue moving rapidly between his lips. And if his good humours were bolstered by the way Enjolras had delightedly thrown his hands around Courfeyrac’s neck in sudden affection, brightly thanking him for the gift?

Well, who was to judge him?


End file.
